Learning to Quit

Written by: Jennaye Derge

It was day two out of three days on the Black Canyon Trail in Arizona and we’d been riding in the hot, late-November sun for about six hours. 

But it was my 11th hour. 

I was tired, hungry, and it was the end of a 20-something mile day that consisted of steep ledges, rocky terrain, and heavy, loaded bikes. We’d just started riding up one of the biggest ascents of the trail and it was right when the sun was starting to set. 

I was starting to cry. 

The day before -- on day one -- nine of us were standing in the trailhead parking lot, packing our bikes and strapping bags onto our frames the best we could. More specifically, I was trying to strap things on my bike the best I could. 

I had never been bikepacking before, but pretty much everyone else were well-seasoned bikepackers. Some had even competed in long-distance races or did multi-day trips on the regular. I, on the other hand, had to ask where the straps went on my seat bag. 

Even though I knew I’d be the black sheep, I still jumped on the opportunity to go on a 76 mile, two night three day bikepacking in the Sonoran desert and by the morning of day three – after 40 or so miles through cactus fields, dry water sources, steep ledges, and sleepless nights – I had adequately learned my lesson: 

bikepacking is hard. It is humbling to balance your loaded bike while going up techy terrain, on steep ledges, where everything around you is a cactus. 

Don’t get me wrong, I was smiling for almost all of it, I laughed when it was fun and nerve-racking and I was constantly reminding myself  how lucky I was to finally be doing something I’d always wanted to do. 

I was loving it and then I was hating it. 

The morning of the last day -- day three -- was hard. None of us slept because of heavy, unrelenting winds that lasted throughout the night and a bright full moon that beamed into our eyes. We had a harsh early start to beat the heat and get everyone back to their cars at a reasonable time, and I was unable to have a proper cup of coffee or breakfast. Within the first 20 minutes of riding I fell off the side of a cliff and tumbled upside down into a very poky tree. I fell (less dramatically than the first time) two more times within the first half of the day, and besides one rider behind me, and my boyfriend who stayed close in front to rescue me in case of any other crashes, I hadn’t seen any of the other nine riders since we had set off that morning. 

Around noon, 48 hours after day one began, my boyfriend, me and two others from our group rested at a stopping point and came up with the most taboo idea ever. 

What if we quit?

What if we found a road that took us off the trail early, and bailed on the final 15 miles?

We were running out of water, moving slowly, it was hot and the clock was ticking. 

The idea of quitting brought one of us to tears. 

Quitting was a worse option to her than bikepacking across the hot Sonoran desert for another five hours without water. That, to me, was wild.

Who or what gave us the idea that quitting when you’ve reached your rational, reasonable limit is bad? Where did we get the idea that we have to push forward in total agony, putting ourselves or others in danger, or pain in order to reach a goal that does even really mean anything. This idea is riddled all over the outdoor industry, and while there is room to try to push yourself beyond a certain limit, there should also be a limit for those limits. 

Are you tired? Did you experience a range of laughter, tears, views, bonding and/or friendship? Did you learn some stuff? Have you gotten to the point where you’ve wanted to murder someone? Are you still happy? Maybe it’s time to consider taking the shortcut back home. 

And that we did. The three of us tail-enders found what was probably the final road to feasibly bail on and we had a little adventure ourselves. Riding through trees, riverbeds, beautiful downhill, easy breezy double track. Up sharp turns and out onto a roadway where the other members of the bike team could easily swoop us up from our shady perch of restful, blissful happiness from quitting.